A Fistful of Horror - Tales Of Terror From The Old West by Kevin G. Bufton (Editor) Read Free Book Online Page B

His hand aches. The gun is warm against his palm. Does the pounding within him come from his heart or the gun?
    “This is what I fear…”
    He runs for the stairs, not sure if Rosita is still in the room they shared. She’ll know what to do. He feels her under him, the solidity of her body, the wet warmth of her breath. She’ll wake him from this nightmare.
    He flings the door open. Rosita lies on the bed staring at the ceiling. There is glass over her body and a bullet through her heart. Flies buzz around her and Grayson’s head swims in time with their movement. El Lobo never misses.
    He sinks to his knees at her side. He brushes away flies and shards of glass. He folds her arms across her chest. They hide the wound but not the bloodstain. He clasps her right hand in both of his. He says nothing for a long while. When he speaks, it is not quite a prayer, not quite an apology.
    “You were right, Rosita.” He gives a bitter chuckle. “You were right. What the hell do I do now?”
    A click behind him. Grayson turns and fires in a single motion. One of the other saloon girls. The tray she held clatters to the floor, tumbler and whisky bottle shatter. “El Lobo,” she whispers as she collapses. A prayer or a curse? Blood blossoms on her dress. He’s truly become El Lobo now.
    The gun drinks in her death, sweet and red. Strength flows into him. His hunger and thirst are all but forgotten. There must be a dozen people downstairs. A dozen lives for him to consume and batten on. Perhaps a hundred souls total in Silver Creek. Not to mention the strong souls of the hunters that would come after him.
    The kid had tasted this too and still he sought to die. He let Grayson kill him. Grayson knows why now. El Lobo can have anything he wants, or anything a gun can get for him at least. Except he can never be free. He and the gun are connected now. Who is the servant and who is the master?
    He steps over the body in the doorway and walks back downstairs. Whispered conversations fall silent the instant he is in the room. Eyes look at the floor. Grayson clears his throat.
    “There’s a mess upstairs. I want it cleaned up.”
    “Yes, El Lobo.” He doesn’t see who answers. It doesn’t matter.
    “Rosita…” The words choke. He clears his throat and starts again. “Treat them with respect. Treat them both with respect.”
    A pause. “And the others?”
    Grayson closes his eyes and curses. The kid had shot into all of the upstairs windows. “Treat them all with respect.”
    He walks outside. Night is close now, but he can still make out the body of the kid in the street. The girl is gone. Hopefully to a family that cares about her. He rubs the shoulder of his horse as he passes it.
    “Sorry, boy. Not what either of us expected…”
    He walks into the night, up the street toward the mountains. Perhaps he should throw himself from a cliff, end it all, let the gun rot in the bottom of some canyon.
    He cries out in pain. The gun burns his hand, stings in his veins.
    “So you don’t like that idea, huh? What are you going to do about it?”
    Nausea erupts in his stomach. The pain brings him to his knees. His head throbs and, even though the gun doesn’t speak, Grayson gets the message. I own you. Keep me fed and happy, and we’ll get along fine. Try to harm me and you’ll have problems.
    “All right. Enough!”
    The pain eases off, though a dull throbbing remains in the pit of his stomach. A reminder. Grayson struggles to get to his feet. He kicks at the dust. He can almost hear the gun laughing in his mind.
    How often does the gun need to be fed? When they start coming for him, does he take the kid’s way out? It seems like the gun isn’t going to let him choose the gunsmith’s path. He looks up at the sky. Where in all that did the metal for the gun come from? Is there more of it on this world? Again images flash in his head. A guillotine blade. A Viking sword. A Roman spear. The rock Cain used to kill Abel.
    He